Just Coast On Through
by bluecharlotte
Summary: Before Stanford, they'd go on night drives when Sam needed to get away. Remembering hurts like hell. Flagstaff, dark, slightly suicidal themes.


It had started when they were young. Dean isn't even sure anymore how young, just that he knew how to drive before sixteen – before his license – and that he took his brother out in the Impala more than a few times back then, when it was technically very much against the law.

But it wasn't like he wasn't justified in doing it. He felt he owed it to Sam sometimes, with how strictly he followed their dad's orders when all they got in return were a couple of twenties and a run-down hotel room. He had to do something to let him know he wasn't alone, not all the time (not _ever_, he wished he could say, but Sam would never buy that). He had to do something to make his brother see that he actually gave a damn about him beneath all the bullshit.

_When you're feeling down,_

_I'm comin' round_

_to pick you up_

_and take you out._

The first time had been when Sam was eleven or twelve. Dean remembers specifically that he was sulking over not being allowed to join a soccer team; they hadn't planned on staying in the small Illinois town for more than a few days. He'd been grumpy and brooding and not even whining over it, and though Dean had tried to make a joke out of it, part of him had acknowledged that it was worrisome. Sam hadn't even been reading or working on something, just lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. Eventually Dean had had it with the silence and the thinking and had grabbed his little brother by the shoulder.

"We're going out."

Sam had looked up, a little wary, but obviously he had nothing better to do and little choice in the matter. "Okay."

Their dad would often catch a ride with Caleb – or whoever he was working with on a hunt – so his sons had a car to get around in, so they had the Impala (though in those days, it was more getting _away_ that mattered than _to_). At first it'd just be a short drive, around a block or two or down to a 7-Eleven. But eventually their trips had lengthened until Dean was driving aimlessly for as long as an hour, maybe more, wandering miles from their hotel.

Instinctively he'd always been able to tell that driving soothed Sam, at least somewhat, and the rumble of the engine tended to sooth him, too. Sometimes they'd turn on music and sing along, laughing at their awful voices, or point out hilarious store names and hobos and pedestrians, or crack jokes at each other's expense if only for the chance to laugh, and to laugh with someone else. It was this kind of surreal comfort that Dean had never been able to put words to in his head, like they were in an entirely different world all their own, one that was safe and warm and whole. It was a world he would never be willing to share with anyone else.

_Let the dashboard underscore_

_everything we've seen_

_while the world plays for our pleasure_

_on our windshield silver screen._

After a while they hadn't needed to say anything at all. Dean would catch his brother's eyes or tap him on the shoulder and nod to the door silently, raising his eyebrows in question. And Sam would stand with a grateful smile and follow, just like that. Dean doesn't remember ever being turned down, which is both frightening and comforting. His brother had always been eager for any form of escape, even if it was just from an empty motel room with John miles away (though never too far away to give them a call and make Sam angry – he'd get angry about a lot in those days, if hunting was a part of it).

By the time Dean had a real license and could legally drive a minor around, he wasn't in school anymore. He pretended he didn't notice the sadness in his brother's eyes whenever it was brought up, pretended he didn't care that he didn't get to finish his education (he was a hunter, a model one, and he knew more about Latin and myth than most grown men anyway).

Sometimes it'd be unavoidable, though, and there'd be days when Sam would get into the Impala from the front steps of whatever high school he'd been attending angry and bristling, slamming the door despite Dean's warning – and, afterwards, his flinch – and refusing to speak. Dean would know from the careful way he'd sit down, avoiding his eyes and shaking his hair over his face, that Sam had gotten into another fight about his deadbeat older brother driving him to and from school, the guy with the leather jacket and the bruise on his face who's probably a druggie, if not something worse.

Those days, Dean would grit his teeth and turn up the radio full blast and _drive drive drive_ until the world was right-side up again. No matter how far they had to go.

Sam never objected.

_And I don't know just where we're going,_

_and I don't care where we've been,_

_but we just coast on through_

_cause while I'm here with you, you know_

_there's no place I'd rather be._

_No place I'd rather be._

Of course, Sam's problems didn't always have to do with Dean. Most of the time they were completely different. Hell, a lot of the time Dean would have no idea what was bugging his brother, and would never find out. But it wasn't hard to tell when something was wrong.

He'd _know_ when Sam was drifting somewhere deep and dark in his head and starting to drown. And he'd _see_ when Sam had stopped reading and was simply staring at the page, or when, at the worst times, he'd start to get a little _too_ attentive while sharpening the knives or cleaning his gun (and Dean would always give him a dangerous look as he took the weapons away from his brother, as if to say _don't you dare, I don't care why, just don't, okay Sammy?_)

And there was a sort of upside to it, to being able to see when his brother was upset and to be there for him, if only in a small way. It made something in Dean warm up a little bit every time he cracked a joke that actually made Sam smile or did something that he – and only _he_ – knew would make him feel a little better. Like driving him out on the quiet highway at midnight to stare at the stars. Like telling him _let's go to a movie, tomorrow's Saturday anyway_, and relishing the feeling of getting lost in someone else's problems for a little while.

Maybe the warmth was love. Dean was sure that at least part of it was. But it was also gratitude that he had a brother to love at all.

_Such a quiet joy,_

_knowing that I'm your pick-up fix_

_and you're my favorite boy._

Then Flagstaff happened. And Flagstaff was, well. Flagstaff.

Dean had been pretty confident by the time he hit twenty that they could trust each other with most anything, but when his sixteen-year-old teenage _rebellious_ brother (_rebelling against the rebels, now that's something_, he'd thought when his dad had said the word) ran away it drove that idea out of his head. Obviously Sam wasn't as attached to him as he was to Sam; he'd flat out lied to him, up and left him alone without saying a word, let him think he was dead for fucking _days_—it still hurts to remember. And when Dad had gotten home...well. He hadn't exactly been happy with Dean for how he'd "let Sammy out of his sight." He was supposed to look after his little brother, after all, and as far as Flagstaff went, it looked like he'd done a shitty job.

Later he realized, of course, that Sam abandoning him was just an unfortunate side effect to Sam abandoning their father, that Sam hadn't had much choice in the matter if he really wanted to get away. But it still hurt like hell that, after looking for so damn long, making himself sick with worry, what he'd found in the end was a kid who'd been having the time of his life on his own, _without_ Dean.

The drive back had been almost as bad as the drive there. He'd been alone with the Impala checking Flagstaff, and after calling their dad to let him know he'd found Sam, they'd started home in relative silence. With just the two of them it was almost worse than Dean imagined it might've been with John there too. Because their father probably would've kept the two of them from having any sort of conversation that condoned running away – yes, admittedly Dean would've probably told Sam he understood, in some small way, why he'd done it, if he'd had the chance at the time – but they were alone with the option to talk, and just _didn't_.

Dean fought to keep his dignity, ignoring every stutter-then-stop beginning of an apology even as they became increasingly faint and exhausted and, though it pained Dean to admit it to himself, heartbroken. Sam just hadn't seemed to know what to say to make it better, and Dean hadn't been able to make himself say it was all okay. The second part of the journey was spent in disconcerting quiet.

_You're feeling tired_

_and I'm bleary-eyed._

_And the highway lines_

_pass by in two/four double-time,_

_and we don't even recognize_

_a single name on the street signs._

It wasn't until they were within a few miles of the hotel Sam had run away from that they came close to making up. With every stop sign or street light that they passed, Dean had started paying closer attention to his brother, how Sam was shifting around in his seat, tense and anxious and maybe a little afraid. He can recall clearly how he'd thought it over for a few minutes, the whole situation.

Sam had left—but he'd sounded so remorseful when he'd said _it wasn't because of you, Dean, you had nothing to do with it, please believe me_.

Sam hated the _family business_, the life they all led—but he dealt with it every day anyway, if only because he had a cool older brother to teach him how to pick up girls and play pool, a calm older brother to keep the fights from getting too out of hand, an observant, loving older brother to take him away, driving until the rest of the world didn't matter anymore.

And Dean had let himself forget about it. He'd tapped the steering wheel absently a few times and glanced over at Sam and waited. And when Sam had looked up, goddamn puppy eyes a little too bright to be normal, they'd stared at each other for a long moment. Dean had glanced at the windshield and raised his eyebrows in question, and there'd been that little tug of hope when his little brother's mouth had curled up _just like that_ at the sides. Then he'd turned the Impala around, turned on the radio, and decided he honestly didn't give a damn where they were headed.

_Nothing else is calling us,_

_but all we've left behind_

_is like a hellhound on our trail_

_and a burden on our minds._

_Cause we know we gotta go home._

They'd hardly spoken a word to each other when Sam suggested about an hour later that they turn back, but somehow everything was resolved. All he'd needed to do was wait for his brother to be okay, and later, to wait for it to blow over with their dad, wait until they all forgot about Flagstaff, until _he_ forgot that he'd been left alone (because no matter what the reason was, Dean _had_ been left alone, and thinking that your brother either got killed or ran away from you is never a good feeling).

And really, that was all he'd ever done. Wait. Wait and wait and wait – and he's waiting now, isn't he? See, it's his birthday today. His twenty-fourth birthday. And he knows he and Sam had a falling out last year and Sam had acted like he didn't want to talk to him after that phone call. But fuck, this is the first time he's had a birthday without his younger brother's voice since he was three years old, and he knows it's fucking childish, but he's goddamn _angry_ about it.

And drunk off his ass.

The thing is, his dad is off on a hunt today. He promised they'd celebrate Dean's birthday after he gets back, but he said he just _had_ to go; Bobby told him about a really peculiar sighting in Kansas, and people could die. But he didn't want to keep Dean from celebrating his own birthday, being such a caring father, and Dean had never been one to ask for anything. So here he is, Dean Winchester, The One Who Gets Left Behind, shitfaced in a bar alone on a Friday night, on his twenty-fourth birthday, his _birthday_, and _Sammy still hasn't called fuck why hasn't he called yet he always called before it was just a little argument do I mean that little to him, his dumbass older brother, nothing compared to the Stanford genius going to law school he doesn't give a shit does he—_

It's all jumbled and fucked up and he doesn't have a clue why anything is anything anymore. He hasn't flirted with any of the chicks who've come onto him all night, and he sure as hell isn't planning on taking one home, not when he feels this much like crap. He doesn't even remember at this point how many beers and shots he's had, just that the number is a good few too many.

That's when he decides to go for a drive.

And as he's stumbling out of the building a few minutes later, ignoring the nervous calls of the bartender behind him, searching for the Impala through the blur over his eyes that some part of him acknowledges is unshed tears, he starts to think. Who has taken his place? Does Sam even go on drives anymore? And if he does, who drives him? Does he drive himself? That just doesn't seem right, never can be, can it?

By the time he finally reaches the Impala his face is wet and his hands are clenched into fists. He gets in and slams the door and fumbles to start the engine, and as he skids out of the bar parking lot he wonders if anyone would really care if he just drove himself off a cliff somewhere in the thick black night.

But he doesn't. He passes out in the driver's seat just a few minutes later, after barely managing to pull over in time to throw up the too-much-alcohol in his stomach onto the gravel at the side of the road. Once he's dragged himself back into the driver's seat, ignoring the rock and broken glass that dig hard into his knees through the denim of his jeans, he starts to drift off, and he stops thinking about how it started, how young they were, how it was to be young _together_.

Because this is how it ends, how it will always end: Sammy in school and Dean off hunting like he's supposed to, Sammy not a teenager anymore, too far away, and Dean sinking into the fog of unconsciousness, tasting vomit and barely able to remember the world they made for themselves, the one that was safe and warm and whole.

He feels like he can't even begin to understand his brother now, maybe because he's not allowed to. Their time in each other's lives is supposed to be over, cut clean apart by their differences, even if many of them are more imagined than real.

And maybe he _doesn't_ understand Sam anymore; maybe they really are nothing alike. But that doesn't stop Dean from being grateful that, at one time, he _did_ – that, if only in those memories, he always will.

_But you don't call,_

_you don't call me no more._

_And I waited all day,_

_you know you'll always_

_be my favorite boy._

* * *

******A/N: The first time I listened to "Night Drive" by Gotye, the Winchester brotherly love feels didn't go away for days. This fic was just waiting to be written. It also killed me to write, for reasons you can probably gather. I love kicking them around too much. :P If you weren't sure about the time frame, it's meant to be happening in Sam's junior year at Stanford, one of the years when they allegedly didn't talk (Sam is 20, and obviously Dean's 24). Let me know what you thought if you've got time, and regardless, thanks for reading. :)**


End file.
